


We got the world spinnin' right in our hands

by Ingi



Category: The Skeleton Twins (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inappropriate Humor, Past Child Abuse, Pregnancy, Sibling Love, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7697656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingi/pseuds/Ingi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Less than a week later, Milo holds Maggie's hand while the doctor pushes a syringe into her. It's not the weirdest moment in his life by far, but it's definitely in the top five.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	We got the world spinnin' right in our hands

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have the slightest idea of where this came from or why. I am terribly sorry, but hey, at least the fandom can have a fic per year!

It's four in the morning and Maggie has to be at work in a couple of hours, and really, they should've known better than to open that whiskey bottle, but it's like they bring the worst out of each other, the most destructive. They're the Dynamite Twins, or the Grenade Twins, whatever rips away more limbs when it blows up.

Milo likes being part of those twins. Holding the responsability for being the sole fuck-up has always been too much for him, too lonely. He doesn't do well with loneliness. It was just about time Maggie stopped pretending she's the perfectly boring middle-class wife. He gave her ten years to enjoy the lie, for fuck's sake, and maybe most of those were spent crying in dirty bathrooms while a stranger pumped into his ass and thinking about how much he hated her for destroying the only good thing in his life, but okay, who cares about the details. He's missed her.

She's missed him too, he's sure of that, because in the end, he gives her the excuse to be like she really is. Weird, fucked up. Perfect. She can take a look at the mirror and then take a look at him and think _Okay, I'm not so bad_ , even when, in reality, she's the worst of the two. She was circling through boyfriends since fifth grade, but, and Milo will never tell her this if he can avoid it because he so does not want the confirmation, he's pretty sure she had sex in sixth grade. She was _twelve_ , but she was already hiding cigarretes in her pencil cases, her socks, under the loose tile in the bathroom.

And now it's four in the morning, her husband hasn't come back home, and they're sprawled on the living room floor with their legs tangled together, and she's pretending she wouldn't like a smoke.

"Hey," she says. Her breath smells like the whiskey they're drinking, like _bad_ whiskey. Of course fucking Lance would have no taste in alcohol either. "D'you remember- remember the day I ratted you out?"

"Uh?" he answers, because that's not what he was expecting her to say. Maggie doesn't talk about things unless she can tell she's going to win if there's an argument, and this is the kind of topic that she would rather not touch ever again. Milo knows, because he feels the same. "You'll need to be more specific," he finally says, pinching her arm. "There've been lots and lots and lots-"

"I wasn't going to," she interrupts, ignoring him. "I thought it was weird and- and gross and _wrong_ , but you were so happy that I- I wasn't going to say anything." She squints at him, then at the whiskey she's slowly sloshing around the bottle. "But I saw you. I walked into you, this one time." Milo stiffens. "You were sitting on his desk and you were- making out with him, and he had- he had his hand on your tight, and he was moving up and down, closer to- closer every time, and all I could think about was slapping it away and pulling you away from him, and I wanted to puke so badly-"

"More than right now?" Milo asks, but his voice is trembling too hard for it, and the joke falls so flat that it must have hurt.

Maggie sits up, brings the bottle to her lips to take a long gulp. She isn't looking at him anymore, but her free hand finds his hair and holds onto it.

Milo remembers, now, the day before the best part of his life was over, Maggie waiting for him on the school gate, pale and strangely frantic, clinging to his hand with clammy palms. She was disheveled and her skirt had riled up, too many buttons of her blouse unbuttoned for any resemblance of decency, but she was never silent after a groping session with Jimmy Bell, and his first thought had been something had gone horribly wrong. She hadn't let go of his hand for the whole walk home, and she'd painted her lips bright red before pressing a kiss against his forehead, like she'd stopped doing in seventh grade.

"You were fifteen," she whispers.

"Lance isn't coming back," he replies before he can think about it, unseeing eyes locked on the ceiling. Everything is blurry. "You blew it. It wasn't me; _you_ did."

"I wanted to love him," Maggie says, tugging at his hair. She sounds angry, but not at him. "It was supposed to be easy. You met him, he was so..."

She sniffs. Milo doesn't want to see her cry, but he turns his head in her direction anyway, watches as she takes another swing from the bottle and drenches her sweater with whiskey in the process.

That was always their problem, wasn't it? Maggie never loved enough, Milo loved too much and too easy and always the wrong person. She'd hold his head on her lap, listen to him pretending not to sob about how nobody in the fucking world would ever give a shit about him, and mutter, between envious and terrified, _I wish I could feel like you_ , and he'd stare up at her in all her faraway, untouchable glory and reply _I wish I could stop caring_.

They tried.

Maggie started dressing plain and unflattering to keep temptations away, probably trailed after Lance for months while faking the stars in her eyes, the butterflies in her stomach, the whole package, until she zipped her normal person suit so tight that she couldn't breathe anymore and the lie collapsed into itself. Milo turned disappointment around in his mouth until everything began tasting bitter, fucked everything that moved, never looked at men older than thirty, but then he came back to this fucking town and went to look for Rich like the pathetic lovesick puppy he was.

"Tell me a secret," Milo asks, their code for _Make me feel less of a fuck-up_. "And stop hoarding the fucking whiskey."

She smiles at that, hands him the bottle. Milo takes it and sits up, and when he looks at her again, she's not smiling anymore.

"I tried to kill myself," Maggie says, staring into his eyes.

"I _know_ , I was the one who dragged your butt out of that pool," Milo huffs.

"No," she replies. "Before. When they called from the hospital."

Milo finishes the whiskey. Half of it ends up drenching his shirt, but hey, at least he and Maggie match now. As usual.

"Well. We're both down to two then."

Maggie doesn't say anything. She knocks the empty bottle out of his hands and doesn't even wince when it clatters against the floor, too thick to break from falling from so little height. Then her arms are around Milo's shoulders and her face is pressed against his whiskey-flavored shirt, and they just _breathe_ , together, like always.

He squeezes whiskey out of her sweater and smiles to himself when she bursts into wet, half-hysteric laughter.

 

 

It's the next Saturday and the house still smells like Lance, or so Maggie says, but she has stopped sniffing every room for traces of him. She probably just did it because he said it was freaky in the first place, but anyway, Milo is glad.

They've burned most of her sweaters, too. They'll have to go out and buy more clothes for her, clothes that don't scream _boring housewife_ , because she's not pretending to be one anymore and her closet is the saddest thing Milo has ever seen. Plus, Christmas is only a couple of months away and they really need to brush up on their charm if they're going to get some in a party or another.

"Hey," he says, right as the door opens and Maggie strolls in, bringing a whiff of dental office and coffee with her. "Do you think it's too early to buy eggnog?"

"You hate eggnog," she replies, unfazed. She throws her purse on the kitchen counter and sits next to him in the couch. "Do you think I should get pregnant?"

"Okay, I don't hate eggnog nearly as much as you hate children, so I think you win."

"Very funny."

Milo raises his brows, considers the question like it's a booby trap he doesn't know how to avoid and can only minimize the damage. Maggie tilts her head and blows a raspberry at him, irritated, and suddenly, Milo can't quite remember even one of the multiple reasons of why it's such a terrible idea. It's _Maggie_ , the real one at last, or rapidly coming back through in any case, and she has him, and he has her, and no one can be as catastrophic as their parents were.

"Eggnog has alcohol," Milo finally says. " _And_ it's festive."

"But it tastes awful," Maggie counters. "Children are only awful if their parents are, and we're pretty cool, if I may say so myself." She waggles her eyebrows, but Milo can read the worry plain in her face. She looks tired. "And they need a lot of attention," she adds, bitting her lip. "I think it'd do me good, focusing in something else, something... good, I guess. And you could do with an ego boost from meeting someone who's even _less_ mature than you for once."

Milo elbows her side, grinning. To hell with it.

"Can you make it blond, Santa?"

"No way!" Maggie says, horrified, but her eyes are bright and she's clutching his arm like all she wants is to draw him into a hug. "Blond like Sarah Willfold, from eighth grade? Poor thing."

"You're right, better redheaded like Cyndi Lauper in her good times." He winks at her, wraps an arm around her waist and lets her lean on him. "But you've got to promise me something," he adds, squeezing her desperately, his eyes big and serious. "If it's a boy, you've _got_ to call him James."

Maggie makes a sound of wordless frustration and slaps his arm.

"You and your fucking James Dean. _Rebel Without a Cause_ is not that great!"

"Blasphemy!" Milo gasps, tugging at her scarf. It's bright pink and hideous, and he loves it, loves that Maggie wears it. "But you're right," he admits, shrugging, " _East of Eden_ is _way_ better. Hey, we should rent it after we're done choosing jizz _à la carte_."

" _We_?" Maggie repeats, indignant. " _I'm_ the one who's going to carry the little monster!"

"Yes," he says, patiently, "but _I'm_ the creepy gay uncle who's going to live with you and help raise it, so I'm going to have it right in my face a lot, and since that's how things are going to be, it'd better be cute _as hell_."

"Being part of our family, it'll probably come from there."

"Aww, bonding already?" Milo coos, patting her knee. "How charming. Now get up and get the laptop. You've got a laptop, don't you?"

Maggie distangles herself from him, sighs, and disappears for a while. Milo is about to yell ar her to make sure she's not having a breakdown in the bathroom when she comes back, bearing the goddamned laptop and her best _I'm-so-nervous-I-could-puke_ face.

"Are we really doing this?" she asks, settling down on the couch. Milo's sure she'd be biting her nails if she could. "There's no chickening out of this, you know that."

He takes the laptop from her and opens Google in response.

"Look, we've got this very nice jizz bank ten minutes away," he hums, clicking away. "Do you think we can place an online order and pay with Visa? You've got a Visa, don't you?"

"Milo..."

"Oh, light up, Maggie, we're just browsing for now." He tips in the direction of the bank and grins widely. "Jesus, look at this. It's like buying a fucking car."

Maggie leans in and makes a considering sound. She's already more interested than afraid, which is good, because Milo is, or will be when he thinks about it, terrified as he's never been before, and he can't keep up the act if Maggie is dragging him down with her own doubts and insecurities. But it really _is_ like buying a car, only more expensive in the long run.

"There are frickin' staff impressions on the donors," she says, mystified. "What is _wrong_ with these people?"

"They're Amazon reviews," Milo replies, trembling with barely repressed laughter. "They're fucking Amazon reviews."

They look at each other, unconsciously mimicking the other's posture, a hand over their mouth and shoulders hunched and shaking. The _don't-laugh_ contest suddenly turns into a staring one, and it's a couple of minutes before they return to the online catalogue of jizz. Milo still can't believe that exists, or that they're using it.

"Okay, so I'm thinking," Maggie starts, pensive, "that maybe the donor shouldn't be too tall. You know, kids reaching the cupboards where I keep the booze..."

"Good thinking," Milo praises, immediately checking the adequate boxes. "Eye color?"

"Don't care," she replies. "It's not like it has a direct link to the soul or any of that new age shit. Who do you think I am, Mom?"

By dinner time, they've agreed on a short, redheaded donor interested in theatre and martial arts who is supposed to be a Joseph Gordon-Levitt look-alike. As it turns out, they _can_ pay with Visa.

 

 

Less than a week later, Milo holds Maggie's hand while the doctor pushes a syringe into her. It's not the weirdest moment in his life by far, but it's definitely in the top five.

When they get home, Milo opens a champagne bottle and drinks it all by himself while Maggie watches, pouting, with a carton of apple juice in one hand and the remote in the other. She puts on a Jennifer Aniston film they both hate in revenge, but they end up watching _East of Eden_ anyway.

When the two lines appear in the pregnancy test, Maggie spends a good while puking in the bathroom before remembering that she actually wanted this. Milo goes to the store two streets away and buys the shittiest, most outrageous frozen cake he can find. Maggie stares at the chocolate disaster with _Congratulations on your Teen Pregnancy_ written with strawberry syrup and hugs him for ten minutes straight. They ignore the early Christmas movies and go for the classy, beloved _Hocus Pocus_.

 

 

When Maggie is, officially, eight weeks pregnant, she enters some kind of Nirvana in which Milo is not invited. She calmly dips pickles in cheedar cheese and showers her ice cream in tomato sauce, and smiles at Milo's continuous gagging. She barely had any nausea, which struck them as weird before, but now Milo understands that he was the one fated to suffer it all along.

They go shopping for prenatal clothes and baby stuff. Maggie is, for once, the one having all the fun while Milo stresses out over the benefits of maternity versus nursing bras, and the mystery of why all of them come in fucking beige. Milo talks Maggie into wearing Halloween costumes during their daily walks, now that they still fit her, and stubbornly faces meetings with old classmates and friends while in drag.

Lance sends a Christmas card and the divorce papers. Maggie pins the card to the fridge, but doesn't yell at Milo when he scrawls _Bye, loser_ over the Hawaii picture and doodles a dick over her soon-to-be exhusband's face. He lets her have a sip of wine after she signs her name on the dotted line, and buys her a Certificate of Divorce announcing that he is very proud of her for surviving her marriage to Sir Lancelot McBoringDude.

Christmas was never they favorite holiday, but this time they put up a tree and everything, go for the whole charade.

Milo doesn't call their mom, although he wants to, but she does call _him_ , and Maggie puts her in speaker and bears her long-winded, meaningless seasonal greetings with a minimal amount of eye-rolling. She later finds a _World's okayest sister_ shirt all rolled up inside her stocking.

Milo, on his part, gets a _Grow a boyfriend_ pack in his, but wakes up to no gifts under the tree because he made the stupid mistake of saying the parenting book Maggie's receptionist got her might as well mean _Well, you're getting fatter, so I just assumed..._ It takes Milo only a couple of hours to wear her down, which should have made him suspicious, and sure enough, he's given a book called _Dude, you're gonna be a dad_ with the dad part crossed over, and a post-it with his charming words being thrown back at him.

Despite the annoying holiday cheer, neither of them is depressed enough to try to kill themselves.

 

 

Maggie is on her thirty-ninth week, looks like she's going to pop in any moment now, and refuses to quit work.

Her receptionist and Milo have become quite good friends on the basis of exchanging anecdotes of things Maggie's belly got in the way of. Milo is partial to dentist fails himself, while Roger seems fond of stuff like asking people to tie her shoelaces and barely being able to open the doors of cramped bar bathrooms. Because of that, and because he's hot as hell, Milo decides to forgive him for being named after a cartoon rabbit.

It's not until the fortieth week when Maggie's water breaks, right in the middle of the hallway of her dentist office. Roger slips on it and breaks his leg. They have to close for the day.

Milo, who had been summoned to bring his sister a sandwich, and so is lucky enough to witness the whole scene, goes back home to retrieve Maggie's labor bag and drives them both to the hospital.

He's allowed to stay in the room and watch while Maggie screams insults at him and at the world and blames him for the whole childbirth incident, which, he helpfully reminds her, wasn't even his idea in the first place. He gets a particularly hard squeeze for his troubles, one that makes him wince in pain and babble to her about legal reports and lawsuits and medical bills. In response, she throws him out of the room.

She's not serious, but the doctors don't know that, so Milo takes the chance to change floors and visit Roger and his broken leg. He writes _I got this cool leg warmer by slipping on amniotic fluid_ on his cast, and Roger kisses him. Milo kisses back, and asks a nurse to warn him when the screaming in room L3-219 stops.

He goes back to Maggie for her last hour of labor.

She lets him hold her while she holds the baby girl, jokes with him about how little she looks like Joseph Gordon-Levitt and how much like an alien. She's tearing up, but Milo doesn't say anything, because maybe he is too, for a whole lot of reasons.

So he does the only thing he can.

He takes the cowboy hat out of the labor bag, puts it on Maggie's sweaty head, and grins.

"Well, _hello_ , Jaimie Dean."


End file.
